


Change of Venue

by die_Frau



Category: Cormoran Strike Series - Robert Galbraith
Genre: Adult Content, F/M, Intimacy, post-coe
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-06
Updated: 2017-08-12
Packaged: 2018-11-09 22:36:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,677
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11114310
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/die_Frau/pseuds/die_Frau
Summary: My first attempt at fanfic, so please be gentle -- but do let me know what you think! Britpicks welcome; I did my best. Just a little something to tide me over until the next one finally comes out!I didn't know how to start it, so it's in medias res.





	1. Chapter 1

“I’ve told you before: We need to be equal partners in this, and that means no putting me in a glass case when you think the job gets too dangerous. I’ve already proven I can handle it,” Robin said fiercely. “How can I truly be helpful to you…to us…when you won’t let me do my job? It’s been nearly a year since we dealt with anyone close to Laing.”  
  
Strike could hear the frustration in her voice, and he knew it was warranted, but he couldn’t keep up the façade anymore. After a pause, he finally said, in a tone he fought to keep measured, “Robin, if anything happened to you because of working with me, I’d never forgive myself.” As she opened her mouth to respond, he held up one large hand to stop her. Pinning her with an intense gaze, he said, “If something happened and I couldn’t hear your voice…see you smile…even argue with you, stubborn as you are…I’d be lost. Do you understand what I’m trying to tell you?”  
  
Robin looked into Strike’s eyes and saw what he’d hidden so skillfully for so long, even from himself. Her own eyes began to shine, and she responded softly, “Yes, I think I do.”  
  
A smile lit up her lovely face, and Strike crossed the room to her in two strides as she stood up to meet him. Never breaking contact, he put his hands to her face and gently pulled it up to his, kissing her with a combination of strength and restraint, not wanting to scare her or do anything she didn’t want. But Robin responded eagerly, putting her arms around him and pulling him close. The feel of her breasts against him sent his head reeling, and he suddenly pulled away, short of breath. Robin looked at him quizzically, and he said with a grin, “Better stop now before I try anything extremely unprofessional.”  
  
She smiled back and said, “All right, so, let’s go to the Tottingham for one as a sort of celebration of a job well done.”  
  
“I assume you mean the case, not the kiss,” Strike responded dryly.  
  
Cocking her head to one side, pretending to consider it, Robin replied saucily, “Well, maybe a bit of both.” Straightening her clothes with a slightly embarrassed look, she grabbed her purse and trench coat, put on the latter, and prepared to go. Strike quickly closed up the inner office door and locked up, following her down the rickety stairs. As they exited Denmark Street, Robin took Strike’s hand, and he found himself smiling like he hadn’t in months.

* * *

The Tottenham, busy as usual on a Friday night, gained a new significance for both Robin and Strike that evening: Both had previously come there after failed relationships, only to be consoled through acts of friendship and concern by the other. Now, as they sat down with their drinks, Strike said, “Y’know, it’s nice to be here with you at the beginning of something rather than the end.” Robin paused for a second, then picked up on his meaning.  
  
“I don’t think either one of us will need to help the other home tonight,” she replied, smiling. The evening went on from there, and they found themselves talking easily about just about everything, from Robin’s learning how to fight from her brothers to Strike telling her stories about his time with the SIB. Before they knew it, it was almost closing and time for them to head, somewhat reluctantly, to their respective homes.  
  
Walking out of the pub into the crisp night air, Strike suddenly remembered he’d left his bank card behind the bar and ducked back in to get it. Robin waited outside, studiously ignoring the drunken leers of the group of young men smoking near the entrance.  
  
“All right, love? Fancy going back in for another pint? Or how about just coming home with me?” called the one, a young man whose good looks only influenced his predatory tone. His mates snickered; he’d obviously gone through this performance before. Robin sighed inwardly to herself. She’d dealt with this kind of lout before, but that didn’t mean she liked it. He called out once again, starting to weave his way over, when Strike came out of the pub, limping slightly. His observant look took in Robin’s smile at him and her fleeting glance at the men opposite her, quickly assessing the situation. Walking over to Robin, he offered her his arm in a surprisingly courtly gesture, simply saying, “Ready to go?” As she tucked her right hand into the crook of Strike’s elbow and placed her left hand on top of it, she hid a chuckle as she caught him scowling blackly at her would-be suitor. The man quickly went back to his corner, not so pissed as to be foolish enough to take on a man with a good five inches and at least a full stone on him, as well as a nose that told its own story of previous fights.  
  
Strike walked with Robin to her tube station, and as she pulled away, he could still feel the warmth of her hand on his arm. Looking into his eyes, Robin said, “It’s been a lovely night. Thank you,” and stretched up to kiss him sweetly on the mouth. He smiled, agreeing, “Yeah, I’m glad we finally did this.” She grinned at the dual meaning of his words and walked away with a wave, saying, “See you tomorrow,” while Strike watched her descend the stairs.  
  
As he finally lay down in his own bed, Strike found himself replaying the evening scene by scene, reliving their easy conversation, Robin laughing at something funny he’d said (God, he enjoyed making her laugh), and the fierce protectiveness he felt when seeing her standing outside the pub, stoically ignoring the lewd comments being tossed her way. Strike did know Robin could take care of herself – she’d proved it repeatedly – but a part of him liked being there for her. Tucking her hand into his arm seemed as natural as breathing. And now his memories grew sharper thinking of the gentle weight of her hand as they walked, the scent of her perfume, and, most poignantly, the fine silk of her hair running through his fingers and the feel of her mouth on his as he kissed her at the office. He’d also felt her gasp and the instinctive rise of her body against his that first time, and it had taken all of his willpower not to deepen it further and do things he’d barely allowed himself to consider.  
  
But they had time for all of that, Strike thought, and he fell asleep with Robin on his mind and the certainty that patience would bear its own sweet reward.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Strike receives a visitor. Consider this a build-up to something a bit steamier in the future...working on it now that I have a bit more time for the summer. 
> 
> As always, critiques welcome.

Robin had gone home long ago, but Strike had stayed behind to write up some notes from the meeting he'd had that day with the accountant who suspected her boss was cooking the books and quite possibly setting her up to take the fall for it. Concentrating deeply, he didn't hear the knock on the office door the first time. At the second volley of knocks, his head snapped up as he wondered who would come to the office after hours. Looking at his watch, he saw it was almost 9:30. The figure behind the door didn't look large or threatening, but Strike nonetheless mentally prepared himself for something unpleasant. He called out, "Sorry, closed," as he walked toward the office door and felt a shock go through him when he heard an all-too-familiar voice say huskily, "Bluey...it's me."  
  
This wasn't the "something unpleasant" he'd been thinking of. Emotions seethed through him, freezing his hand in the act of reaching for the door handle. Would he let her in? What would happen if he didn't? He'd more willingly dealt with live grenades -- which, in her own way, Charlotte was, Strike thought grimly. Reluctantly, he opened the door.  
  
She stood there in a black trench coat and a rich pink silk scarf, her glossy, dark hair perfect and her achingly lovely face now etched with pleading. Seeing her in the flesh, on his doorstep, reminded Strike of the last time she'd been here. Somewhere in his mind he also recalled it was Robin's first day, and that thought helped him gain some equilibrium. "Why are you here, Charlotte?" he asked in a flat tone.  
  
"May I please come in?" she asked in a conciliatory tone that immediately put Strike on alert. He widened the door and gestured for her to enter. As she walked in, she moved forward to kiss him on the cheek and he caught a whiff of her perfume, briefly bringing with it memories of whispered words and intimate kisses they'd shared. _A live grenade, mate_ , he reminded himself, and quickly backed away. "It's late and I've had a long day. What do you want?" he asked again.  
  
Her eyebrows rose briefly in a look of surprise. "You don't have to be so short with me." As he opened his mouth to respond, she put up a defensive hand to stop him. "All right, I'm sorry. You're right. But I've come here because...I didn't know who else to go to."  
  
He knew what was coming before she said it; they hadn't been together for sixteen years without him learning how to anticipate her words. With a deep breath, she said, "Jago and I had an awful row. He said...terrible, unforgivable things...and I just couldn't stay. It's been like this for weeks now...I can't stand it. I thought I could live that life, I thought it was what I wanted. But then I began to consider what truly made me happy, and I thought of you." Strike said nothing as she continued to speak but again felt emotions roiling within him. Hadn't a part of him waited, hoped for this exact scenario? Hadn't he pictured her too many times, standing before him, tears in her eyes, telling him that she'd made a horrible mistake and that she wanted him back?  
  
But quite a lot had happened since those sleepless nights on his camp bed in the office. He'd found something else to put his energies into, created a successful business after months of near insolvency -- and discovered that he could have a relationship with a woman that brought him far pleasure and a measure of calm he'd never known, rather than something out of the Sid Vicious and Nancy Spungen playbook. As another image of Robin popped into his head, he felt as though he'd cleared away a thick fog that had begun to suffocate him. Meanwhile, Charlotte was still talking.  
  
"Bluey...please...I've changed. I know you don't believe me, but I have, truly. I love you. I realize I always have. And I know that you still love me. If I'm going to live, I want to do that with you." Always with the dramatic touch, thought Strike sardonically. He'd heard her threaten to take her life before. Charlotte looked at him with wide, beseeching hazel eyes, dangerously winsome in her earnestness. With his characteristic trait of missing nothing, Strike caught a ghost of a triumphant smile, a sign that she would, as always, get what she wanted. She still thought nothing had changed.  
  
Heaving a deep sigh, Strike said, "Charlotte, it's time for you to go."  
  
"You can't mean that," she gasped. He almost chuckled at her look of astonished disbelief. Apparently his ignoring her texts and emails wasn't enough -- she had come here to see if he could resist her in person. But he'd gotten this drug out of his system long ago.  
  
"I do. Go back to Jago or whoever you have staked out next; I'm finished with all of this," said Strike with quiet but unmistakable finality. For a quick second a more truthful emotion -- rage -- passed over Charlotte's face, and Strike braced himself for a fresh black eye, but instead she paused and walked over to him slowly, seductively. He watched as if viewing it as an audience member in a badly predictable play; once again he knew what was coming.  
  
"Are you sure that's what you really want?" she asked, challengingly. Her delectable body was inches away from his.  
  
"As sure as I am that I"ll never play for Arsenal," he replied calmly. Charlotte gathered herself quickly, rarely discomposed for long. She gave him one last, measuring look, which he returned with equanimity. Lifting her chin in unconscious defiance, she turned and walked out, slamming the office door behind her.  
  
Strike listened to her heeled boots echo down the stairs with a gusty exhalation he hadn't even known he'd been holding. He ran a hand through his hair and massaged his neck, relieved that he had finally closed the door on his relationship with Charlotte, literally and figuratively. His eyes fell on Robin's chair and he realized how much he'd changed since he met her. Not only did she help save his business, but she also brought a peace and steadiness to his life that he valued more each day, not to mention a mouth he was very much looking forward to kissing again, he mused, grinning.  
  
_Time to take a next step_ , he thought, and rang his old friend Nick to arrange an overdue dinner with him and Ilsa, plus one.  



	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Strike and Robin go to Nick and Ilsa's, then to Cormoran's flat. Their relationship hits a new, decidedly unplatonic level.
> 
> Note to pillowdrabbler: There's a line in here about vulnerability that is close to something you've written, but it's something my husband says to me -- just didn't want you to think I was lifting your idea without giving credit.
> 
> Critiques and Britpics appreciated.

Strike and Robin walked toward Nick and Ilsa's house, the bottle of wine Robin had insisted on bringing stowed safely in a brightly beribboned bag. ("You don't need to bring anything," Strike had protested, "Nick and Ilsa are like family." "All the more reason I want to make a good impression. Besides, I want to do it," Robin had replied, and Strike had had an irresistible urge to pull her to him and kiss the top of her head.) As Strike reached out to push the bell, he noticed Robin's look of uncharacteristic nervousness and squeezed her arm. She took a deep breath and smiled at him, reassured. Nick opened the door and ushered them in, Ilsa hovering immediately behind him, waiting impatiently to greet Strike and Robin. Strike received a hearty handshake and pleasantries from Nick and a quick peck on the cheek from Ilsa and then watched, amused, as both of them turned to Robin and gave her a hug and a kiss each, as well as effusive thanks for the wine. Robin shot Strike a quick "told-you-so" look, which he returned with a grin and a roll of his eyes.

That evening was one of the best he'd ever spent with his old friends, even as he allowed himself to be mildly embarrassed by stories of his sometimes impetuous youth. For her part, Robin delighted in seeing Strike so unguarded. As she watched, she realized the truth of the statement: Nick and Ilsa really were like family, but the best kind--the kind you could trust and let down your guard with, unlike Lucy, around whom she knew Strike always felt judged and tense, bombarded by her sisterly fussiness about how he lived his life. Seeing his face crease with laughter instead of worry or frustration made Robin light up as well. Strike caught her tender look and unconsciously reached out to take her hand as they sat on the sofa together, kissing it quickly and putting it on his knee with his hand on top, continuing his banter with Nick about Arsenal's chances for the playoffs. Robin leaned into Strike as she sat diagonally across the coffee table from Ilsa, discussing a recent difficult case and getting the lawyer's perspective. Ilsa gave her husband a knowing nudge and he returned it, eager to get Strike away from the women and grill him in his own way.

As the conversations hit a quiet point, Nick stood up and said, "All right, I know you two have to get going soon, so I'll make you some tea for the road. Oggy, come with me--I know you like yours dark as pitch, and I don't want grief for getting it wrong." Robin laughed, and Strike, heaving off the couch, grinned down at her.

"You should have Robin help--she knows exactly how I like it." His unintended double entendre turned both of their faces red for an instant, which wasn't lost on either of his friends.

"This is the 21st century, you backwards bastard. Come make your own damned tea," responded Nick, and they went into the kitchen together. As soon as they were out of earshot of the living room, Nick turned to him. "All right, Oggy, fess up. What's the story with you and Robin?"

"What d'you mean?" asked Strike.

Nick snorted. "Don't give me that, mate. You wouldn't have brought her here if she was only your work partner. It's not like you need a date to get through an evening with Ilsa and me. And you're not usually the hand-holding type."

Strike grinned and said slowly, "I like her. I like her a lot."

"And? You sound like you're still in school. Christ, it's like pulling teeth."

He thought for a moment and replied, "I know I don't want to be with anyone else. I know I don't bloody want her to be with anyone else."

"So that's good, yeah? You slept with her yet?" asked Nick.

Strike made a face. "It isn't like that. She's not just some woman I want to try it on with."

"But it has crossed your mind."

"God, yes," Strike admitted on a low exhale. Nick laughed and Strike smiled back ruefully. "But it's not just that she's beautiful -- I mean, of course, she is, but it's more than that. She's intelligent, she's thoughtful and kind. She always makes me feel good about myself...but she doesn't take any of my shit, either." He ran a hand through his curly hair, looking at the shiny linoleum floor.

"And you certainly dish out your fair share, Oggy. Have you told her any of this?"

Strike scoffed and snapped his head up, shaking it quickly as if dispelling the thought. "Fuck, no. I'm not ready for all that. I'm not exactly typical 'boyfriend' material."

"Well, she's not a typical woman. I think you know that. And let me tell you -- if you don't do something, some other punter will notice it, too, and --" Strike put up his hands in a defensive gesture. "I mean it," said Nick in a serious tone. "I got a second chance with Ilsa, but not everybody does. I've never seen you this happy or this calm. She's good for you, and you're a fucking idiot if you let her get away because you're too scared to do something about it." Strike stared at his old friend for a beat. He rarely spoke like this, certainly not to Strike. Nick stared right back, his gaze warm but intent.

"We watched you with Charlotte for sixteen years, mate. It was like bloody _Coronation Street_ half the time. You don't need that in your life. Tell her how you feel. You know what I mean, even if you're too damned stubborn to say it to yourself."

Strike took a deep breath. "Talking of drama, Charlotte showed up at the office the other night." Nick nearly dropped the mugs he was pulling out of the cupboard as he whipped around to look at Strike.

'What? What the hell did she want?"

"Me, apparently. She had a row with Jago, saw the error of her ways, all the usual bullshit." Strike's mouth was set in a grim line.

"Well, I hope you showed her the door. You don't want to start anything with Milady."

"Right in one," replied Strike. "I'm more than happy to have her out of my life." Nick finished pouring the water over the tea bags, grinning as Strike made sure Robin's was just as she liked it.

 

* * *

While the Tube carried them back to London, Strike sat quietly, brooding over whether he should tell Robin about Charlotte's visit. Was he inviting trouble just at a time when everything seemed to be going well, spitting in the face of good fortune? Robin noted his furrowed brow and gently touched his arm.

"Everything OK? I thought the evening was lovely," she said hesitantly. Strike snapped out of his thoughts and smiled at her. "Best time I've had at their house yet. And they loved you--I don't think they'll let me come back without you."

"Then what's going on? You have a look on your face like when you're talking to Carver." The caring concern on her face made up Strike's mind: He couldn't keep Charlotte's visit from her. It would be too much like lying for his conscience.

"I'm fine. Would you come up to my flat before you go home? I need to show you something." _Not really a lie_ , he told himself. The sudden change in conversation surprised Robin, but the earnestness in Strike's tone caused her to agree readily enough. He felt a combination of relief and nervousness...he had no idea how she would react.

As they walked into Strike's small flat, he turned to Robin and said, without preamble, "Charlotte came by the office the other night." Stunned, Robin paused in the act of taking off her coat.

"What on earth did she want?", she asked, unconsciously echoing Nick. Her face was a study of emotion, ranging from anger to concern to fear. Strike saw the latter and wished he hadn't said anything, that Charlotte had finally decided to get gone and stay gone. He walked over to Robin and helped her out of her coat, hanging it neatly near the door because she seemed to have frozen.

"She claimed she had broken things off with Jago and wanted to try again with me." Before Robin could utter a word, he quickly said, "And I told her to leave. That was it." He searched Robin's face again and read her unasked question there. "I told you because I don't want to hide things from you. Not you." This seemed to thaw Robin a bit and she let Strike gently stroke her arms as he faced her and spoke.

"Let me try to explain...I don't do vulnerable well." At this admission, even Robin smiled faintly. "I fought my feelings for you for months, especially when you broke up with Matthew that first time. And then when you ended things for good...I didn't want to risk losing the person I trusted almost more than anyone. You know my relationship with Charlotte was a fucking trainwreck. And I know it sounds like a cliche, but I didn't want to risk hurting myself. Or you." Robin hadn't said anything but looked up at Strike with expectant blue-grey eyes that gave him the courage to continue. He took a deep breath.

"Charlotte is one of the most beautiful women I've ever seen."

"You're terrible at this," Robin said shakily.

"Hear me out," replied Strike quickly. "Charlotte is beautiful on the outside. But you...you're beautiful inside and out. She's got nothing on that. It's what's inside you that...that made me fall in love with you. I've loved you for a long time," he said quietly. He waited for any response, his heart beginning to sink, when Robin finally responded. "I love you, too, Cormoran," and his name had never sounded so sweet to him.

They stared at each other for a moment and Robin suddenly asked, with a sly grin, "What about the outside bit?"

"That's what's making me want to take you to bed right now and do things to you that I've barely let myself imagine," Strike said thickly.

"Well, why don't you let your imagination go a bit and see where it takes us?" Robin suggested, and he looked at her in delighted astonishment as she pulled his face to hers.

He began to kiss her gently at first but as he felt her eager response, Strike's mouth moved more urgently on Robin's, his tongue finding its way. His hand slid from her neck to her left breast, and Robin suddenly paused and began to laugh. Strike felt as though he'd been doused with a bucket of cold water...he had expected hesitation, perhaps, considering her only experience had been with Matthew (and her unfortunate encounter with the bastard who had raped her), but certainly not this reaction. He pulled back, nonplussed, and demanded, "What's so funny?" in a harsher voice than intended. He did have his pride, after all.

"It's just...the last time you did that, you were rather rough. I think you have some making up to do," Robin teased. Strike, realizing she wasn't laughing at him or his advances, relaxed and smiled himself, remembering their initial encounter on the office landing.

"I think you're right. Let me see what I can do about an apology...." he replied, his voice husky, and began to stroke her breast with his thumb, drawing it tight and eliciting a moan from Robin. Encouraged, he continued his ministrations as she arched toward him with a gasp, saying in a low voice, "I'm just about ready to forgive you but not quite...."

Strike laughed, reveling in Robin's gentle teasing and the fact that he finally had the chance to touch her the way he'd wanted to for months. They moved to the bedroom and undressed, learning each others' bodies as they went. As Strike sat down on the bed to remove his prosthesis, Robin knelt behind him and gently drew her nails up and down his back and across his shoulders, easing his tension at this raw act of difference, something he'd never fully allowed her to witness before. She watched carefully and, as he turned back to her, he had a look of mingled defiance and defeat.

Putting a hand to his knee, she said quietly, "You aren't any 'less' because of your leg. You're a grumpy bugger, and you're the most stubborn person I've ever met--"

"Look who's talking," Strike retorted.

Robin swatted at him and continued. "And underneath all that you're the best man I've ever known. No lost limbs will change that."

He closed his eyes briefly, savoring the feel of her hand and the sincerity in her voice. As Robin drew him down on the bed with her, Strike knew that this night would change everything...and he realized he welcomed it, had been secretly hoping for it. Casting aside his fears, he focused on the woman beneath him, her body arching to meet his as they came together, his hands and mouth roaming over her, guided by her soft cries. They moved together, building in intensity until Strike could barely hold himself back, but Robin pulled him close and whispered in his ear, "Cormoran, please...." At that he let everything go, feeling all of her tighten around him in response.

Much later, Strike and Robin finally came apart in a state of boneless, satisfied exhaustion. They lay loosely together, Robin on her stomach with one arm absently stroking the hair on his broad chest and Strike staring at the ceiling as he waited for some semblance of coherence to return. Finally, he turned his head to look at her and asked, "Apology accepted?"

Robin's face, turned toward him, split into a smile as she laughed and let out a contented sigh. "Hmmm...for now. But I'll reserve judgment for the future." He chuckled and gathered her to him, her head resting high on his chest as she nestled close and flung one leg over his. Robin's last conscious thought was that she'd never felt this--there was no other word for it--complete before with Matthew. She kissed Strike's darkened jaw, and he smiled sleepily into her hair, more at home in his flat than he'd ever felt before. Because home wasn't a place, he realized; it was her.


End file.
